


Falling to the Ground

by seducerhymeswithdeduce



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dubious consent of violence, Dylan likes to hurt Mitch and Mitch is willing to please, No sex occurs, Sadism, Under-negotiated Kink, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:59:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17131160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducerhymeswithdeduce/pseuds/seducerhymeswithdeduce
Summary: Mitch loses a bet. He’s not so thrilled about the consequences. Dylan is.





	Falling to the Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> Hi hello hi. This is some garbage drabble from my mind. Why am I like this? Who could say. 
> 
> This is unedited and has switchy POV (because I’m lazy). Read it or don’t. Whatever, my dude. 
> 
> Anyways if you have feelings about this, hmu on tumblr (bittyparse).
> 
> Thanks to my one true babe reserve for letting me yell these filthy things at her. Love u.

“A little to the left. Yeah. Okay, turn your face the other way. Don’t wanna mess up your pretty mouth eh?” Dylan dangles the puck back and forth, making sure his stick is loud against the ice. “More than it already is,” he mutters under his breath, grinning. 

Mitch twitches on the ice, the cold bleeding through his long-sleeve into his stomach and deeper, until it feels like it’s chilling into his bones. His head is still raised from where he’s laying on the ice, eyes zoned in on Dylan’s stick, flicking the puck back and forth too fast. It would make Mitch hot under the collar for how good Dyl looks like this, casual power over the black hunk of plastic on the ice. It would make him warm if he wasn’t already shivering from being so intimately close with the red line painted into the ice below him. 

Dylan pauses, swings his stick back. Mitch flinches. Dylan can see the lashes on his eyes flutter. 

“Not gonna tell you again, baby. Turn your head.” 

Mitch turns his head. He can’t see Dylan anymore. Dylan’s not moving, standing there, admiring. The silence stretches on. 

“Fuck! Dyl, ugh,” Mitch moans, pressing his cheek to the ice to try and distract himself with the cold. “This is a dumb fucking bet.” 

“It’s not a bet Mitchy, it’s the outcome of the bet. That you lost.” 

Dylan starts flicking the puck and back and forth in front of him again. He can practically feel the anticipation buzzing out of Mitch’s skin, like an electric current waiting to shock whoever touches him. 

“Dyllllllaannnnn,” Mitch groans. Dylan quickly hides his grin as Mitch turns around, impatience clear across his face. “Just do it.”

“Do what? Maybe I just want to watch you lie here.” One of Mitch’s cheeks is dark red, wet and splotchy from where he had it pressed to the ice. 

Dylan doesn’t tease Mitch much longer. He can see that Mitch is nervously jittery and his line is being pulled more and more taught the longer Dylan delays. Mitch might just snap any second. And that’s what has arousal pooling low in Dylan’s stomach, as he tunes out Mitch’s complaints from down the rink. 

“Don’t move, okay? I’m gonna hit hard and I don’t want to hit your middle and break a fuckin’ rib or something.” 

Mitch freezes. Dylan zeroes in on Mitch’s thigh, thinking how pretty a dark bruise will look there. How Mitch will pant and cry and whine about it later, while Dylan stripes his ass with his come. He’ll be able to press into the bruise later, when it’s darker, just to see Mitch squirm. 

Dylan lines the puck up where he wants it, and swings his arm back.

“Wait wait WAIT!” 

“You know you’re making this worse for yourself, right?” 

Mitch sits up on the ice. Dylan’s eyebrows lift. 

“Dyl, wait, you’re gonna kill me. You hit too hard.”

Nothing like a little flattery about how hard his shot is. Dylan’s chest puffs, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

“You backing out?” 

“Dylan, c’mon, this is crazy, I don’t have any pads on or anything.” 

“So you’re being a pussy and reneging on the bet.” 

Mitch just sits there. He’s full on pouting now. Dylan cracks his stick on the ice, loud. 

“Lay down, turn your head, and shut the fuck up Marns.” 

Mitch’s mouth sets in a hard line but he does it. He’s getting cold and as much as he knows this is going to fucking suck, he knows Dylan will be all sweet on him after. He hopes, anyways. Besides, it feels like his heart is going to jump out of his throat any second and he just wants it to be over with. 

Dylan shuffles the puck between his stick, once, twice — “Last reminder, don’t move!”— and slap goes the puck. The sound is defeaning. 

Time slows down, his ears ring, Mitch doesn’t even have time to move before the pain explodes on the back of his thigh. Right underneath his right cheek. 

Mitch screams.

“FUCK!”

The shout turns into a high whine and a whimper. His arm stretches behind him, his hand gingerly covering where the puck hit. 

Dylan skates over quick. When he stops in front of Mitch, he showers him with snow. 

“Uuuuuunnnngh. You hit that fucking hard.”

“I didn’t hit it that hard.” 

Mitch rolls over onto his back to ice himself and frowns at Dylan. Dylan offers a hand out to help him up. 

“Next time don’t take bets you’re gonna lose, eh Mitchy?” 

“Asshole,” Mitch grits out, pain still leaching into his voice. But his mouth turns up into a smile as he grabs Dylan’s hand, and hauls himself into Dylan’s waiting arms, snuffling a laugh into Dylan’s neck. “It’s throbbing.”

“It’s not the only thing that’s throbbing.” Dylan can’t help himself. He’s kind of maybe definitely hard from the way Mitch is leaning into him, hanging on to him, counting a little too much on his support from the amount of weight he’s putting onto Dylan. 

“Shut up. You won, you got your stupid bet, please take me home now.” 

Dylan helps him limp off the ice, and only bumps into where the puck hit once (twice - okay three times) on purpose on their way home.


End file.
